


Aberration

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Porn, Season 3, dub-con, talking like it's therapy, they both had to be at Pineherst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-16
Updated: 2009-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why are you still here?” Sylar asked.</p><p>“I’m waiting for you to fall asleep,” Mohinder replied, not bothering with the shield of pretense even though his intention was shifting like the sands of a dune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aberration

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes to [](http://turtlespeaks.livejournal.com/profile)[**turtlespeaks**](http://turtlespeaks.livejournal.com/) for looking this over in November when it was super crappy and in July when it was a little less crappy and told me both times that it did not suck. [](http://levitatethis.livejournal.com/profile)[**levitatethis**](http://levitatethis.livejournal.com/) also seconded it's not suckitude but I remain quite cautious on that front.
> 
> This is 10% sex, 90% emotional porn and 1,000% self-indulgent on my part of wanting them to be in therapy together. 
> 
> Takes place from 3.07 Eris Quod Sum to 3.10 The Eclipse Part 1 (aka the time Sylar and Mohinder are both theoretically at Pineherst)

  
Mohinder couldn’t stomach the smell of the hydrogen peroxide. It did little to remove the bloodstain that Sylar’s head left on the floor. He folded his arms and shuffled to get a better look at the grisly red concrete. When Mohinder glanced back to the empty gurney, his stomach churned. There wasn’t a chance for answers now that Peter was gone. It still hadn’t occured to him that he was going to inject Peter of all people with an untested formula because all he could see was the literal chip on his shoulder growing larger by the day. He needed to put a stop to it, no matter the cost, and quite possibly without Arthur’s help. He cleared his throat and turned to face him, folding his arms to hide the shake in his hands.

“I’m going to need another test subject,” he said.

“We’ll find someone. Someone _other_ than Gabriel. I have plans for him,” Arthur said.

Mohinder walked over to the bloodstain and stared at it, using the toe of his shoe to scrape the invisible brain matter from the floor. He was thoroughly sickened by how much relief he got from cracking Sylar’s skull against the concrete but the sickening feeling turned into despair and fear when Sylar opened up his eyes and sat up, very much alive and adding to the problems of the world tenfold by virtue of now being indestructible.

“You must know what he is,” Mohinder said.

“Valuable,” Arthur said supplied and the air of nonchalance made Mohinder burn. Things were different now that Sylar was in the picture. If Arthur had some grand design for his ‘long lost son,’ it meant that Arthur was even more sinister and idiotic than he originally assumed. He was playing with fire.

“I think the word you’re looking for is _dangerous._ A murderer.”

“You’ll get another test subject and some new help. Don’t worry,” Arthur said and adjusted his cuff of his jacket, barely acknowledging the staff wheeling the separate gurney away with the body bag of Mohinder’s former associate. He doubted Arthur even knew the man’s name. He didn’t either for that matter. He’d been too focused on his work to socialize with his colleagues. The dead scientist could have had a family, a life he lived before Sylar took it away from him. Mohinder didn’t have any idea how many bodies it would take for Arthur to get a clue, but he wasn’t going to sit around and watch them pile up. He headed to the doorway and paused to give him a cursory look.

“I have work to do,” Mohinder said and left Arthur to ruminate.

***

Mohinder jogged up the stairwell, newspaper tucked under his elbow and coffee in hand and took a large bite out of the pastry he grabbed from the downstairs lounge. He didn’t need the caffeine anymore, hadn’t felt the craving since before he injected himself. He was growing scales, experiencing nausea, fits of paranoia and exceeding the scales of the stress tests but the perks of his botched formula remained; increased staminia and strength. However, his heightened metabolism required him to take in enough calories for a man twice his size. He had to get used to the fact that needed o carry a half dozen power bars around to snack on and help him get through the day. Carrying the coffee and newspaper gave him a sense of normalcy, props that put forth the image that he was another hardworking scientist, the newest consultant at Pineherst and not a man who was running out of time.

He swallowed the last of the bearclaw and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the familiar head of dark hair round the corner. He wiped his hand on his his coat and watched him disappear from sight, heading down a hallway that several lab techs were converging upon. His hand shot into his pocket and he reached for another powerbar, fingering the small switchblade he slipped in there as a precuation. Tearing open the wrapper with his teeth, he jogged the last few stairs and bit into crumbling granola.

Sylar had some nerve, holding a door open for the petite receptionist who struggled to push the door open, her arms full with a box that had desk supplies and a potted plant sticking out from it. Their exchange appeared amicable, her grateful smile and Sylar’s polite nod as he let the door fall shut once she was clear. Even if Sylar wasn’t faking consideration for another human being, he didn’t have the right to be _nice_ anymore, not when he he’d slaughtered dozens, wreaked havoc on so many more. There wasn’t any way he could come back from that. Sylar’s hands fell back to his sides and he headed back dowan the hallway and Mohinder trailed after him at a distance, easily blending in with his white lab coat, though if anybody looked close enough or addressed him by name, he might have a problem. He was already known around the facilities, had his own staff, unlimited resources. He had almost everything he needed.

Sylar stepped into the elevator and as the doors slid shut, Mohinder sauntered to read floor number. He walked briskly to the stairwell and ran up the four flights of stairs in relative ease, not even spilling any of his coffee. He stood at the door for a moment and counted to 10 after he heard the ding of the elevator before he opened the door a crack and peered down the hallway. The sixth floor had no offices or lounges. Mohinder took several cautious steps into the empty hallway. No labs or conference rooms. No, it had more of a penthouse feel, potted plants and a view of the city at the end of the hallway. All the hallmarks of the Petrelli luxury. He took an automatic sip of the coffee as Sylar pulled a keycard from his pocket and swiped.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?” Mohinder asked and sidled along the wall.

Sylar held the door open at arm’s length. “What are _you_ doing here?” Sylar shot back.

Mohinder frowned and threw his newspaper at him.

“You may be fooling Arthur, but you’re not fooling me.”

Sylar stared, neither frowning nor gloating. If Mohinder had to guess, he’d say he thought Sylar looked tired.

“I might be fooling myself, not quite sure, but I’m not here to prove anything to you. I didn’t even know you’d be here,” Sylar said, the silent _so don’t flatter yourself_ evident from his narrowed eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to catch up on some sleep,” he said, having the nerve to brush him off. Mohinder knocked the door open before it closed completely. He leaned against it and ignored the splotch of hot coffee on his wrist.

“I’m sorry, were you up late getting some new abilities? There are so many people to stalk, maim and kill. Or did Arthur take everybody’s abilities before you got to them? Like father, like son, I suppose,” he mused, unable to keep the derisive snort from escaping. Sylar shook his head and walked into the spacious living room, failing to give Mohinder the litany of excuses, reasons and existential pontification he was expecting.

Mohinder stalked after him and when Sylar looked over his shoulder he shook his head again and flicked his wrist twice. The door behind him slammed shut and Mohinder felt the invisible pressure push him backwards. It wasn’t abrupt enough to knock him off his feet, but it was enough to let Mohinder know that he wasn’t in the mood for company. He wanted to laugh at Sylar’s moody reaction. He regained balance and strode towards Sylar, grabbing him by the shoulder, stopping him before he could reach the bedroom. Sylar turned, surprised. After all, it’d been a long time since their last assault and this time Mohinder had speed, had agility, strength. He had almost everything except a cure for the the scarring, the shaking, the thyroid and cardiac problems.

Sylar pulled away, surprising Mohinder this time by going on the defense rather than the offense but he wasn’t disappointed when the sour expression made it’s way onto Sylar’s face, at the halfway point of exhaustion and crazy.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Sylar asked.

“What hasn’t gotten into me is the better question,” Mohinder said and punched Sylar in the nose. Mohinder flew backwards again, this time with enough force to knock him over, coffee spilling over his shirt and floor. When he sat up, Sylar was cupping his face, the shock plain on his face.

“Seeing you in pain is never going to get old,” Mohinder said, pleased with himself and ignored the sting of the hot liquid on his chest.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

“Believe me,” Mohinder said, drawing himself to his full height. He couldn’t be intimidated or frightened by Sylar anymore. He had nothing left to lose. “I would’ve ripped the head from your shoulders if daddy dearest hadn’t showed up.”

Sylar inhaled loudly and lightly pinched the bridge of his nose, the cartiledge healing before Mohinder’s eyes, complete with the grotesque _schlucking_ as the bone shifted back into place. He inhaled without wincing and wiped the dribbling blood from his upper lip with his wrist and walked past Mohinder. He opened the door and looked at him.

“I think you should leave.”

Mohinder kicked the door shut and slammed his palm flat against the door, right next to Sylar’s ear and the sting of the impact ran up his arm but he didn’t flinch and neither did Sylar. Sylar slowly turned to look at his hand and arm and frowned. He closed his eyes and shook his head, like he was tired, like was too taxing for him to deal with. Mohinder vibrated with anger. He was staring mortality in the face because of an ability while Sylar got to strut around, encased in an immortal shell.

“Are you done?” Sylar asked. “If you didn’t get the memo, Petrellis have a hard time staying dead.”

“You’re readily embracing your new name,” Mohinder sneered.

Sylar’s eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly and his lips curved in an indiscriminate smile Mohinder was waiting for.

“Looks like you missed threatening me. It’s been… what, a month?” Sylar said.

“Not nearly long enough,” Mohinder said. He fingers curled into his fist and he counted backwards from ten. Pummeling Sylar wouldn’t solve his problem. But if he only had a short time left in the world, beating Sylar until he was unrecogniziable was one of the few things he’d enjoy before he died. He had to have his vengance one way or another.

“I forgot, did you mention what you were going to inject Peter with and why?” Sylar asked, tapping his chin in curiosity.

Mohinder rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t play that game. He didn’t have to _justify_ himself to Sylar of all people.

“Once upon a time you were in a hurry to kill Peter and now you came to rescue him. Why the change of heart? He doesn’t have any abilities anymore. What’s he to you?”

“He’s family,” he said, as if that was answer enough. Mohinder laughed right in his face because Sylar couldn’t legitimately feel any kind of kinship to Peter, even if they were related.

“Mohinder,” Sylar said, rolling his shoulders and resting his head against the door. He closed his eyes looking far more worn than Mohinder’s ever recalled seeing. “Please go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what the hell you think you’re doing here. Saving Peter. Meeting Arthur. Are you going to kill Arthur? Is that it?”

Sylar lifted his head and opened his eyes halfway. “I’m looking for answers.”

Mohinder scoffed. Sylar shrugged.

“I know. Coming from me it’s hilarious but it’s true. Now… can you please go?” he said and moved as if he was going to duck underneath Mohinder’s arm, but Mohinder blocked him. Sylar straightened, shoulders and hips pressed against the door and grabbed onto Mohinder’s elbow tightly.

“What makes you think it’s going to be that easy? You came here, looking for… what, redemption?” Mohinder asked, sincerely curious but he didn’t want to stomach the lies or perverse reasoning in the truth that Sylar believed.

“I don’t know if this is going to stick, but I had to try something different. I don’t expect you to understand. Nor do I want you to,” he said and pushed Mohinder’s elbow out of the way. Mohinder punched him in the shoulder and pinned it there, fingers digging between the blade and collarbone and Sylar looked like he was forcing himself to keep his face deliberately blank.

“I’ve made a lot of wrong decisions in my life. I can’t atone for them, but I have to try…and see if this works,” Sylar added as an afterthought, glancing at something across the room. When Sylar looked back at him and found Mohinder staring, he looked away. It was unusual because Sylar had always been so focused on eye contact. It was a way he assumed control, maintained his dominance. Add in the fact that there was no goading, no taunting, Mohinder didn’t know what was going on. If anything, Sylar had to be playing it close to the vest.

Sylar’s face softened around the edges, the discomfort of admitting the need for some kind of atonement passing as slowly as it’d come. Mohinder wondered if literally ripping his head off would actually kill him and he’d stay dead. Sylar leaned in close, close enough to startle Mohinder with the scent of something that smelled burnt. Too close for Mohinder’s comfort. He edged out of the way, blinking frantically and Sylar’s lips pursed shut. Sylar tongued the inside of his cheek as he avoided eye contact once more.

“What the hell was that?” Mohinder asked.

“You know, I don’t have to call security to kick you out,” he said, sounding farther away than the foot that stood between them.

“Fine. _Move,_ ” Mohinder said, letting his hand fall to the side. Sylar turned his body as if to open the door but he stopped short and patted Mohinder on the shoulder. Mohinder shrugged him off, his vehement glare losing it’s potenency when there didn’t appear to be any antagonism in Sylar’s face, but Sylar was a practiced liar, master manipulator. And despite the last 20 seconds, Mohinder wasn’t prepared for the brush of lips against his cheek and the wistful sigh that escaped Sylar’s mouth when he opened the door for him.

Widening his eyes, he backed away several steps. “What the hell do you think you’re trying to accomplish by doing that of all things?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Sylar said, sounding sad. He opened the door wider.

“You’re not always going to get away with your bullshit games,” he hissed and pointed at him. Sylar knocked his hand like he was swatting a fly. That was the Sylar he knew.

“I’m not trying to get away with anything,” he spat. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you.” He walked into Mohinder’s space, grabbed him by the elbows and dragged him to the door. Mohinder wasn’t going ot let Sylar manhandle him and he twisted until he got his arms free, but he had a niggling sense that it wasn’t his enhanced strength and that Sylar let go because he tumbled into the wall next to the door, head grazing the bottom of the picture frame that hung there. Sylar approached him more like a skittish animal than a predator. The cruel frown that slid onto his face wasn’t reminiscent of the displeasure he had in Isaac’s loft or when he was drugged and strapped to the chair in his apartment.

“Leave. Now,” he hissed and the threat was still able to set Mohinder on edge. He stared, wild eyed, half-expecting to be trapped in a telekeintic choke hold and tossed aside like a toy.

“What the _hell’s_ happened to you?” Mohinder asked.

“You’re not the right kind of doctor to hear that kind of thing,” Sylar said with a rueful laugh and rubbed the corner of his eye with his knuckle. When Mohinder stepped forward, to head towards the door, Sylar actually stepped backwards, completely of his personal space. Mohinder’s hand slid into his pocket, touched the edge of the switchblade, but didn’t open it. He took a step towards Sylar, this time not towards the door and Sylar back away again.

“Can you stop that?” Sylar asked, looking as if he was going to raise his hand and throw him out for real. Mohinder felt the invisible pressure on his shoulders, not pushing him, but angling him towards the door but it wasn’t strong enough to keep him from turning back.

“Why? This is no different than what you’ve done in the past.”

“The past _was_ diff—look, I told you. I’m not going to stand here and hard as it is to believe, I can’t actually do this right now,” he said.

“Why aren’t you throwing me out if you want me to leave? Why aren’t you really using your powers? It’s obvious they’re there…” Mohinder asked and Sylar shifted, planting his feet and Mohinder could feel the determination coalesce around him now that Mohinder called him on it.

“Because I’m trying to be done with that,” he said.

The pocket with the energy bars and switchblade felt heavy and Mohinder couldn’t help but palm the blade again as he took another defiant step towards Sylar, wondering how far he’d be able to go before he showed his true colors again. Even in Sylar’s personal space, Sylar’s unusual demeanor didn’t waver. He looked at him, jaw set and eyes wary.

Mohinder’s punch hadn’t done as much as he thought it would. However, a knife in the throat would elicit a stronger reaction. What stopped him from following through with the thought was the look of horror on Nathan and Tracy’s faces when they woke up, strapped to the tables at the loft. The muffled sobs of the nameless people sequestered away on his walls and ceiling. Peter’s terrified eyes and pleading voice. All of them were as equally present as the somber reflection was tempered by the antagonism on Sylar’s face. His shoulders slumped and he was about to turn heel and leave but he had to try something, something else. He grabbed Sylar by the neck and kissed him on the lips.

Neither of them did anything when their lips touched. Mohinder exhaled through his nose and began to pull away, but Sylar opened his mouth slowly which urged Mohinder back. His hands slid up Sylar’s shoulders and neck and encircled him, burying his fingers in the tufts of hair. The animosity had seemingly bled from Sylar’s face when his eyes fluttered shut. Mohinder knew that because he kept his eyes open. He had to, he needed to see what was really happening. It was also why he was confused and frightened by the unmistakable smile on Sylar’s face that grew wider in between the tenative kisses they employed. Mohinder stroked the sweet spot on the back of his skull with his finger, the same place where Peter died and stayed dead when the glass struck the place and Sylar shuddered under his non-bladed touch. Sylar had walked him backwards enough to press Mohinder against the closed door that was closed with an invisible push. The knock to the back of Mohidner’s head was almost hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, but Sylar’s hands roamed his chest, gliding over the sides of his body, touching but not yet feeling him, like he was scared to do anything more than kiss. He regarded Sylar with hazy eyes, breathing heavily as they broke from an ardous kiss. He flinched the moment Sylar’s hands touched his lower back and Mohinder abruptly knocked his arm away. Sylar narrowed his eyes in part confusion, part curiosity. He reached for him again and Mohinder knocked his arm away once more.

Sylar’s scrutinizing head cant, as if he was looking at Mohinder like he was discovering a new power, brought Mohinder back to reality.

“What was that?” Sylar asked gently.

Mohinder pushed Sylar to the side and reached for the doorknob, but the knob didn’t turn.

“Really, what was that?” Sylar asked again, scooting in between Mohinder and the door. He swallowed and licked his lips. A few moments ago the action might have been alluring but now it was far from palatable to Mohinder’s eyes, even if there was a pleasurable twinge in his stomach signalling that he wanted more.

“Not the,” Sylar mumbled, motioning to his lips, “but the,” Sylar motioned for Mohinder to turn around. When he didn’t budge, Sylar grabbed him by the wrist and twisted his arm until he found himself pressed to the door. It wasn’t painful, but it was still awkward with Sylar bearing his weight against him. Sylar ran his hand along Mohinder’s back and his hand snaked beneath the tail of his shirt. He bucked beneath the iron grip and grunted, knowing he had more than enough strength to take care of Sylar but it wasn’t making a bit of difference right now.

“Your skin,” Sylar said and pushed Mohinder’s shirt up. “What happened?” he asked.

“That’s none of your business,” Mohinder said and heaved himself from the door, knocking Sylar away in the process.

“Are you sick?” Sylar asked, grabbing Mohinder’s arm and wrenching the sleeve up, looking at the lesions.

“Not sick like you,” Mohinder said.

Sylar grabbed his other arm and Mohinder pulled away.

“Show me,” Sylar said.

“No,” Mohinder said. He reached for the doorknob but his hand never made it there because Sylar grabbed him again and pulled him in close.

“Please?” Sylar whispered into his neck, lips hovering above the skin. It sent shivers down his back that Mohinder didn’t want to feel.

“Why?” Mohinder asked, straining against him.

“I want to know,” Sylar responded with more simplicity than ever, the weariness gone. Mohinder pressed his forehead into the door and waited, counting Sylar’s breaths. He didn’t try to wrestle free. He waited. Counted. Sylar’s breaths weren’t getting any warrmer but Mohinder felt warmer with each exhalation. After the eleventh breath and the shift of Sylar’s hand on his shoulder Mohinder sighed, resigned to the fact that he had to deal with Sylar in that manner. It was his own fault, but he’d try to make the best of it, use it to his advantage if possible. He hiked his shirt up his back but not over his head, allowing Sylar to get a decent look at the grotesque scales protruding out of his back.

There was more silence, more steady breathing, this time on his back, as Sylar leaned in close upon examination.

“What happened?” Sylar asked finally.

“I made a mistake. Bit off more than I could chew,” he said.

“Do they hurt?” Sylar asked.

Mohinder shrugged and let the shirt fall but Sylar grabbed it and pushed it back up.

“An ability,” Sylar murmured, far too perceptive for Mohinder’s liking. Mohinder closed his eyes, pillowing his face into his arms against the door and considered ripping the damn thing off the hinges as his best means of escape.

“It’s not working right. The side effects…”

“Are overshadowing what you can do,” Sylar said, curling his fingers into the folds of the cotton. “Why didn’t you let Arthur take your ability?” Sylar asked. As if the thought hadn’t occurred to Mohinder.

“Because I learn to live with my mistakes,” Mohinder said defiantly, pulling the shirt back down again but Sylar yanked it back up again.

“Wait,” Sylar said, lightly touching the edge of the lesions. “Why did you do it? You must know how dangerous experimentation can be,” Sylar said.

Mohinder pushed Sylar away with more intent this time. “Are you _really_ asking me that? _You?_ I did this because of you and people like you. I’m sick of being used like a little pawn in everybody’s game.”

“And it turned out like nothing you imagined,” Sylar said.

“No, it didn’t. I’m a monster now. Killing people. Doing terrible things to them. I’m no better than you.”

Sylar laughed sadly and waved Mohinder off.

“Don’t think that you’re like me, because you’re not,” Sylar said.

“That doesn’t mean much coming from you.”

“Take it for what you will,” Sylar said. He rubbed his face, kicked off his shoes and retreated to the bedroom. Mohinder followed, watching Sylar collapse on the neatly made bed. He rolled onto his side and eyed Mohinder.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Sylar said. “Had to get a few history lessons about the family tree… among other things,” he said. He rolled onto his back and laid there for awhile, staring at the ceiling.

“Why are you still here?” Sylar asked.

“I’m waiting for you to fall asleep,” Mohinder replied, not bothering with the shield of pretense even though his intention was shifting like the sands of a dune. He’d been upset by Peter’s escape, Nathan and Tracy breaking free, but there was part of him that was grateful that he hadn’t been able to follow through with the experiments like he wanted. Deep down he knew he wasn’t going to find a cure. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to dig himself out of the hole he made himself. But he _could_ have revenge, even if it would only be temporary. He could have that satisfaction. But he he could still _try_ to find the answer, keep searching until he couldn’t search anymore. He didn’t want to entertain the notion of Sylar’s own changes and and failed journey towards redemption because there was no redemption—for either of them. The indecision wracked his mind and he wanted to stamp his foot in childish frustration.

“Good luck trying to kill me,” Sylar said, the words flippant, but they didn’t sting his ears with superiority like they normally did.

“Why are you really here?” Mohinder asked.

“I’m going to sleep now,” he announced, turning over, facing away from him. Mohinder’s hand slid into the coat pocket and he fingered the switchblade, weighing the pros and cons of revenge versus leaving now and returning later with a syringe. By most of his estimates, the formula wasn’t going to work and Sylar would die anyway. But he’d been denied gratification and retribution for so long now that he didn’t even realize he was kneeling on the bed, blade already in hand and going for Sylar’s head. Mohinder was flung backwards before Sylar even rolled over.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Sylar said and the anger was beginning to fill his voice like Mohinder was vividly familiar with.

“Why not?” Mohinder asked, scrambling to his feet. Sylar was off the bed in a flash and in his face again. This time the invisible pressure coiled around his neck and tightening. Mohinder grabbed onto Sylar’s forearm and Sylar pulled him close, much in the same way Sylar restrained him earlier by holding his wrist behind his back. Sylar kissed him, hard. The invisible pressure was gone, replaced by Sylar’s warm hand holding him steady while he turned them and walked Mohinder backwards. Sylar’s one-handedly undid his jeans, eyes held steady on Mohinder’s face, urging Mohinder’s lips apart. He pushed Sylar’s hands away and Sylar let go, holding his hands up, but he still stood close enough for Mohinder to feel the warmth emanating from his body. He blinked wildly and swallowed and there wasn’t enough space between them because Mohinder kissed him again, teeth clacking which made them pull away and try again, soft whimpers of _needwantmore_ indistinguishable bewteen them. Sylar kissed his way down Mohinder’s face, lips gently pecking at the scales on the side of his neck. He was frantically pushing the front of his shirt up and Mohinder’s arms fell from Sylar’s shoulders to his sides, the dry lips kissing his stomach making it difficult to breathe.

“What are you doing?” Mohinder heard himself say but Sylar responded by kissing the area around his navel, chuckling enough that Mohinder had the thought to shove his jeans down. Sylar cupped his ass, dragging his fingers along the curve and down along his thighs, circling around his kneecap and coming back up and finished by palming the bulge beneath his briefs. The faint snap of elastic was nothing compared to the cold air hitting his half-hard cock when Sylar pulled the cotton down.

He tried stepping out of the bunched clothing at his feet but Sylar grabbed him by the ass and walked him backwards, still on his knees, until Mohinder sat on the edge of the bed. That’s when he cleared the underwear and denim away and tenatively reached out to touch Mohinder, searching his face for approval. Mohinder gawked, his knees parted halfway but the more Sylar stroked, the more he opened his legs. Sylar grew bolder, his hand sliding from his cock beneath his shirt, around his waist, fingertips feathering the edge of the leisons before returning soothe the ache between his thighs.

He wasn’t prepared when Sylar’s mouth closed around him. The heat and pressure immediately disappeared and reappeared as Sylar tightened his lips around the tip of his cock. Sylar sucked and it felt like he he was hesitating, unsure but when he pulled off to exhale and lick his cock, the shivers Mohinder experienced now sent his skin on fire.

Sylar took him in again and he could vaguely hear the half-noises escaping his throat as Sylar worked, the heat and swirling tongue along the length was almost too much to bear. Sylar’s steady breathing, the low sound in the back of his throat made his cock vibrate and he felt the instinct to thrust, but Sylar held him still. His hands fell loose on Sylar’s shoulder and he clutched the side of his face the moment his stomach twinged and his orgasm began to uncoil, the bobbing of Sylar’s head the loud, fervent sucking noise filling his ears. He wasn’t sure if he gasped as he came, said Sylar’s name or what, but he did know he bent forward, jerking his hips pitifully and Sylar began to swallow. The hands on his thighs were tight enough to bruise but that was of little concern to Mohinder as he felt himself filling Sylar’s mouth. Sylar began to swallow but mid-way through started choking and pulled off with a harsh cough. Mohinder quickly took over, hand around himself and finished shooting his load, hitting most of Sylar’s shoulder. Sylar maneuvered his hand out of the way and sucked the last bit out of him and sighed when Mohinder’s flaccid cock fell from his mouth. He managed to stifle another cough and squeezed Mohinder’s knee, glancing up at him with apologetic eyes. Mohinder stared, dumbstruck, nerves still haywire as he descended back into himself. As if he was suddenly shy, Sylar looked down at the leftovers on his shoulder and grinned bashfully. He got to his feet and Mohinder held onto his wrist before he could walk away. The confusion on Sylar’s face was brief and quickly replaced by curiosity, but all Mohinder could see was himself on Sylar’s shoulder, the white stain blatantly marking his black shirt.

“Sorry,” Sylar said. Mohinder tore his gaze from the semen to look Sylar in the eye.

“Is that the first time you’ve ever said that?” Mohinder asked. Sylar frowned and his eyebrows dipped momentarily, but then the mask of tiredness shifted back into place. He pulled his wrist free and began unbuttoning the soiled shirt as he headed towards the bathroom. He tossed it ahead of him onto the tiled floor, flipped the faucet on and stood there over the sink and took his time washing his hands and face. Mohinder retrieved his underwear and pants while Sylar toweled off, deciding that he’d wait to feel regret after he put some space between them. Sylar paid him little heed as walked past him to the mahogany wardrobe. Sylar unfolded the pajama shirt, the soft rustle of fabric loud in Mohinder’s ears, somehow reminding him of the obscene sucking sound of Sylar’s mouth.

Sylar unceremoniously shucked his jeans off and Mohinder got an eyeful of Sylar’s softened member until Sylar pulled the bottoms up and over hips. Sylar started to button the shirt but gave up after the second button. He rubbed his face, his eyes in particular. Too much pressure building up there from the ego and abilites, Mohinder surmised.

“Too many buttons,” Sylar mumbled, fumbling with the slightly-too-long sleeves that hung over his wrists, but he gave up rolling them and walked to the bed and flopped onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

“Try to kill me again or leave. I should be used to it by now, but I really can’t sleep while people are watching me,” Sylar said, muffled by the pillow and pointed at the back of his head. When Mohinder didn’t move or make a sound Sylar rolled onto his side, pillow indent fresh on his face already. “Made it hard to sleep in a concrete cell when there’s looking glass. Like I’m a circus freak or animal,” he mumbled. He paused and fluffed his pillow. “Still can’t be sure there aren’t eyes everywhere. Ringmaster likes to know what goes on everywhere under his big top,” he said.

Mohinder finished zipping and buttoning his jeans and slid the lab coat onto his shoulders, though it took a bit longer to fish the lost switchblade out from underneath the wardrobe. He pocketed it again and approached Sylar with caution.

“Why are you really here, Sylar?”

“Again?” Sylar asked, the incredulity dotting his voice. “Same as you,” Sylar said. Mohinder frowned and Sylar scooted over, as if he was making room for him to sit. He didn’t. Sylar attempted to explain the confusion away. “You think you can do some good here, working from the inside. Inside the lion’s den,” he said.

“What are you—”

“You’re a good man, Mohinder. I wouldn’t think for a second you’re like any of these wolves in sheep’s clothing. Wolves with Ph.Ds,” he added.

Mohinder stopped, eyeing his naked feet. When he looked away, he found a stray sock ensconced in a shoe by the bedroom door. He meant to grab it, put it on and leave, but he gritted his teeth and looked at Sylar.

“I’ve _put_ it in my nature,” Mohinder said.

“You’re strong and smart enough to fight your nature,” Sylar said, rolling onto his back, dismissing him again.

The sound of steady breathing filled the air in addition to the dull pounding in Mohinder’s ears and chest. Any other person, Mohinder would have thought they’d fallen asleep, but no. Sylar was still there, eyes open, chest barely moving, his lips pinched into a tiny frown.

“What was this?” Mohinder asked. He sat down. On the far edge of the bed. He was about to get up right away but the bed moved under him and Sylar propped himself up on an elbow and the morning light coming from the window colored Sylar’s face, revealing the dark circles that hung beneath his eyes.

“Do you always have to ask questions?”

“Fine,” he said and got up but Sylar reached out for him and Mohinder eased himself back to the bed, painfully aware of how Sylar’s grip felt _different_ , but unsure as to how and _why_.

“It’ll sound ironic coming from me,” Sylar said.

“It already sounds ironic,” Mohinder said, looking at the hand that was still on his arm. Sylar followed his gaze. Self-conscious, Sylar let go and kept his hand to himself.

“I… wanted to do something… nice.”

Mohinder looked bewildered and Sylar avoided his eyes, looking at the nightstand, searching the folds of the lampshade for illumination. For some kind of way to rationalize what had happened. Sylar pointed, at what, Mohinder couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to be a gesture for the sake of normal discourse and not of a telekentic sledgehammer.

“I have all of these powers. I’ve wanted—I _want_ more but I don’t know how much more will help. Where the end is,” he said and his arm folded back into himself. “And now I’m trying this out this thing, a family. A mother. Being useful. Being wanted.”

“Having a purpose,” Mohinder supplied. Sylar nodded and closed his eyes.

“Exactly. But nothing seems to go right when I try to help someone. There’s always something in the way and doesn’t work right for whatever reason,” he said.

There were a half dozen insults on the tip of his tongue, but they all felt wrong and ashen inside Mohinder’s mouth, so he refrained. Sylar’s hand slid underneath the pillow and continued talking, eyes closed and perhaps not even caring if Mohinder was paying attention or not, even though he was.

“It’s… I think it’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you don’t fit in… or people pretend to know you or use you,” Sylar said. “I feel like I won the lottery and all my long-lost relatives have come to cash in on me now that I’m somebody,” he said. “They couldn’t have showed up when I was 19 and rotting in Queens, going to community college, studying business so I could take up the shop of my father who walked out on us when I was a kid.

“You know, nobody anywhere asked me what I really wanted. Before everything happened… or even now. Everybody assumes they know what I want,” he said.

Under the visage of post-blowjob weariness, Mohinder laid down on the bed and faced Sylar, his body shielding Sylar’s eyes from the sun, making the bags beneath his eyes less evident. He sucked in a deep breath. “What is it that you want? Power?”

“Maybe. It’s great, isn’t?” He shrugged a shoulder and fisted the pillow beneath his chin. Sylar didn’t even pretend he wasn’t looking at Mohinder’s lips. They were out of arms reach, but Mohinder was almost anxious enough to jump up and remove himself from the bed.

“Family? Peter’s one of your brothers,” Mohinder said. “That explains some things.”

“Does it?” Sylar said. “Is life really that poetic?”

“I don’t know,” Mohinder said.

“I’m already tired of being a Petrelli. There’re too many wildcards. Feel like I’m suffocating,” Sylar mumbled sleepily into the face of the pillow.

“That I can believe,” Mohinder said.

“Mohinder?” Mohinder’s throat went dry, seeing the question on Sylar’s face. “Why are you here? On the bed? You have your own problems to solve,” he said.

He shook his head, silent and Sylar made a great effort to sit himself up and hold out his arm. He slid the pajama sleeve up. “If a blood sample might help…”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not always walking around with a syringe,” Mohinder said as a veiled attempt to neither accept or decline the surprising offer.

Sylar made a fist and opened his palm several times, looking at the vein and back to Mohinder. He didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head, didn’t do anything and Sylar pushed the sleeve back down when his head landed on the pillow. The misery of sleep deprivation was more pronounced when Sylar sighed into the cotton and rubbed his face again, but when he looked at Mohinder the eyes weren’t telling him to leave. They weren’t even telling him they hated him, looked greedy or anything that Mohinder was sure he knew still lurked beenath the surface.

“I want to kill you,” Mohinder said and he sat up to rest against the headboard. “You sound sincere but you sound like a lot of things all the time,” he said.

“You have no reason to believe me,” Sylar said.

“I’ve imagined killing you for three years. I killed you yesterday but that didn’t make a bit of difference. It felt good. It felt _great_ actually. It was the right thing to do, even if Arthur stopped me the second time. I really want to kill you. Make you pay,” he said.

“Why did you let him stop you?” he asked.

“ _Because_ ,” Mohinder said, voice cracking. “You just don’t go away. _Ever_. And that’s what kills me. Even if you’ve turned a new leaf, it will never, _ever_ erase the fact that you’ve taken so many lives,” he said, looking down at the shadowed face that looked like it held remorse. “I know this because I’ve hurt innocent people now. I can’t go back from that. I have to learn how to live with myself and that’s only if I live long enough to figure out how,” he added with a dry laugh.

“Nobody can undo their past sins,” Sylar said. “We don’t get that right. We’re only—”

“Human?” Mohinder said. Sylar’s face fell and he didn’t say anything after that. He leaned away, his hand curling further underneath the pillow.

“I really want to kill you,” Mohinder said, sliding down the bed. He reached out and cupped Sylar’s face, thumb rubbing the grainy jaw, wondering if there was something particular about Sylar never shaving… Then again, he hadn’t remembered to shave every day for awhile. He threw his own professionalism thrown out the window when he was working against the clock.

Sylar looked less tired and mored scared as Mohinder ran his finger up his jaw and stroked the curve of the dark eyebrow—the right one— and Mohinder scooted a few inches closer to him.

“I _should_ kill you. Again,” Mohinder said, hand carding Sylar’s hair and back to his face. Sylar never flinched when Mohinder’s hand maneuvered around his eye. “But right now all I want to do is ask you what this is,” Mohinder said, thumbing the small mark just below the thick eyebrow. He wasn’t sure if it was a birthmark or an injury, but it was there; an anomaly on the anomalous man.

Mohinder could see the movement of Sylar’s adam apple, even shadowed by his form. Sylar reached for Mohinder’s hand and held it there.

“Closed up the shop one night. Someone wanted my wallet. I landed on a broken bottle,” he said.

“A battle scar.”

“The fall broke my glasses,” he said and the muscle shifted underneath Mohinder’s fingertip, the gentle quirk of his brow.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye,” Mohinder said. He was going to sit up but Sylar pulled him closer before he had the chance. Mohinder felt his face grow warm, his stomach twist again despite being completely spent. The fear that had spotted his features only moments ago upon Mohinder’s touch had faded, replaced again with the trying-to-stay-awake-at-all-costs expression.

“You know what I liked about fixing watches?” Sylar didn’t stop to let him answer but he drew Mohinder’s hand down to rest on his cheek and rubbed his knuckles with the pads of his fingers. “It’s when you have all the right pieces, it’s easy, fun, to put it all together. It’s a puzzle,” he said. There wasn’t any hint of a smile or frown. “It was boring, but it’s what I did. Was good at it, even,” he murmured.

“Loved hunting for the right pieces. Went all the way to Germany once to find a part, a zenith,” he said. Sylar’s hand was loose on his, loose enough that Mohinder was able to slide his hand free and Sylar didn’t seem to mind.

“Always knew when something something was missing cause the watch wouldn’t work. Being special was going to be like that. But it wasn’t. Didn’t know where I began, don’t know where to end. When it’s finished and working,” he whispered sleepily, eyes closing. Mohinder sat up only to have Sylar tug him back down and spoon against him. Mohinder lifted his arm out of the way and looked down at the sight of Sylar pressed to his body, arm draping over his waist. He was dumbstruck by the entitlement of Sylar’s arm and mentally kicked himself for asking about the eyebrow, for sitting down at all. He was laying on the side that had the switchblade in it, the power bars being squished inside their wrappers from his weight.

“I’m the zero sum of all these parts,” Sylar said and sighed, burying his face in Mohinder’s chest, his hot breath seeping through Mohinder’s shirt. After that he didn’t move and Mohinder didn’t either, afraid to jostle him further and learn about how his surrogate mother didn’t really love him as a child. But he still needed to roll away because Sylar still smelled of soap. Mohinder didn’t know why he remembered Sylar failing to brush his teeth and he wondered what a sleepy kiss would taste like, if it would taste of the remnants of him that he swallowed. Mohinder let his arm fall back to his side and somehow it came to stroke Sylar’s hair back, stroking that _spot_. When Sylar didn’t shift under the touch, he realized the idle body was asleep in his arms. He managed to detangle himself from Sylar’s sleeping form and find his socks and shoes so he could go and stare at the formula.

***

It was the 38th batch of the formula. _38_. He’d injected the test subject—the _man_ whose name he never asked for—and ignored taste of bile in the back of his throat. He simply couldn’t ask for the name, but it didn’t matter. The chagrin and pain on his face was permanently seered in Mohinder’s mind. He watched him suffer, skin break out in tumors and painful, open lesions that he couldn’t stand to document but did anyway.

It was 6:34 in the morning when he injected him.

The man’s heart rate rose to 164 beats a minute.

It remained that elevated for two hours straight.

He wasn’t going to ever forget the 120 minutes of agony, the clenched teeth, the stifled whimpers of a man who’d been strong, maybe even healthy once. Certainly healthy before Mohinder got ahold of him.

In the end, the autopsy hadn’t even given him any help. He was still left in the dark, only now his hands were red with the blood from his heart and kidneys. He knew the formula needed some kind of catalyst to work properly but he didn’t know where to begin looking for the right enyzme and protein combination to solve the problem.

After Mohinder emptied the contents of his stomach, he got so upset he broke two of the flat screen monitors in the lab. When he called the techs for replacements, he called it an accident. While they cleaned up the mess, Mohinder ventured outside and wandered through the hallways, he needed to clear his mind, at least temporarily. He’d go outside for a short walk, leave the building and go to the deli on the corner and back. Fresh air, some food would be a suitable enough distraction until he could get back and stare and fail some more.

The knob-headed Flint and and leather clad Knox came down the flight of stairs from the upper level conference rooms. Flint chuckled, the heavy southern drawl making Mohinder’s churn long after Flint and his cohort disappeared. Sylar and Elle also came down the stairs, heads bowed low as she said something in his ear and he nodded with a small grin on his face. Mohinder turned back, pretending he didn’t see them but it was too late. The bemused grin slid onto Elle’s face and she trotted down last of the steps quicker than Sylar.

“Hey there cutie,” she said upon seeing him. Mohinder really didn’t miss her sociopathic playfulness or the way her eyes summed him up with a sultry glance.

“Elle,” he greeted flatly, looking from her to Sylar and back again. Sylar crossed his arms and hung back, watching Elle lope across the hall and swing her arms around his neck for a hug that Mohinder barely reciprocated.

“Didn’t know you were here,” she said, patting him and looped her arm in his. He purposely unlocked their arms and began walking down the hallway, back towards his lab where he’d sit and wait, the empty stomach and formula-related nerves momentarily forgotten.

“Where’s the fire?” she called, walking as if to catch up with him.

“Arthur Petrelli’s got a deadline I need to meet,” he said, walking backwards and waving her off. He stepped into the elevator and gave her a _what can you do_ shrug as the doors slid closed, leaving her pouty expression behind.

He hesitated before thumbing the number. He leaned against the wall and stared at the floor for no better reason than it was there. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. He wasn’t surprised when he saw Sylar across the hall, leaning against the wall, arms still folded. He didn’t even bother wondering how he got up there so quickly, by elevator, by flying, by magic. It didn’t matter.

Mohinder didn’t exit the elevator and the door began to close but it bounced back open like there was an arm blocking it.

“Wrong floor?” Sylar asked.

Mohinder shrugged.

“Are you going to get off?”

“I was going to go and get some fresh air,” he said.

“And that’s on the 9th floor?” Sylar said with a similar smile that Elle had been wearing. He nodded and headed down the hallway without saying anything else. The door began sliding closed a second time but Mohinder threw out his own arm and pushed it back open, quickly stepping into the hallway and snaked around the corner to Sylar’s room.

“Something’s coming,” Sylar said and swiped his keycard and entered, holding the door open for him.

“An eclipse,” Mohinder said and followed. “I know.”

“He wouldn’t stop talking about it. ‘It’s coming. It’s coming,’” Sylar said with a hint of mocking. “He’s worried.”

“Did he say why?” Mohinder asked and Sylar tossed the key on the nearby and sprawled out onto the couch.

“He’s too cryptic for that. He just kept painting it, over and over, telling us we had to be prepared,” Sylar said.

“What are you going to do?” Mohinder asked.

Sylar shrugged. “Cross that bridge when I come to it,” he said.

Mohinder walked towards the window, vertical blinds hanging half-open, and looked out at the traffic and cityscape on the horizon. He could actually see the deli on the corner from the view. It was still early enough for him to go and get some halfway decent coffee and a vegetarian panini, but his hunger was already a fading memory, replaced by the nausea of his impending death. Unfortunately the gnarled muscle, blistered contusions weren’t fading.

“What’s wrong?” Sylar asked.

Mohinder folded his arms and continued to stare, only briefly turning to look at Sylar lazing on the couch. Sylar sat up when Mohinder looked at him.

“What isn’t wrong,” Mohinder said and paced alongside the window, hand grazing the blinds and they dangled in his wake.

“Taking cryptic lessons from the head of the Petrelli family, I see,” Sylar said coolly.

Mohinder stopped at the corner of the window and looked back at him.

“I killed a man today,” he said.

Sylar nodded empathetically and stood.

“The formula didn’t work… again. His deterioration was faster than I expected... More painful. I—I couldn’t let him suffer,” Mohinder said.

“You showed him mercy,” Sylar said. Mohinder didn’t want Sylar’s _kindness_. The thought made him choke on his laugh.

“Don’t give me that tone. I knew exactly what I was doing when I gave him the formula and when I put him out of his misery. And now I have to live with myself.”

“Then what are you telling me this for?” Sylar asked, crossing the expansive living area to where a mini refrigerator sat. He removed a bottle of water and threw it across the room at him. Mohinder caught it easily and Sylar pulled out another for himself, taking a long drink as he strode towards Mohinder but flopped down in a chair instead. “You’re obviously not looking for advice or support on the subject,” Sylar said and motioned at him with the tip of the bottle.

Mohinder looked down at the water bottle and found that he had instinctively begun to peel the paper label from the bottle.

“You were afraid,” Sylar said thoughtfully, the tip of the bottle resting on his chin.

Mohinder walked to the coffee table and put the water down, it’s label half-torn like skin from the plastic. “The mutations were extensive—eroded synaptic functions, diminished linguistic capability,” Mohinder said and sat down on the couch and retrieved a the folded up autopsy results, though he’d already seen the cardiac damage with his own eyes, felt it with his own hands.

“He had one of the largest heart attacks documented in the last 50 years,” Mohinder said. “There’s no way to stop it, let alone reverse the negative effects,” he said.

“You’ll find a way,” Sylar said.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Mohinder said. “Peter—he told me he went to the future, that he saw what I’d become. It’s already too late.”

Sylar straightened in his chair slightly. “There are people that can travel to the future, paint it, but the future can be changed. You know that. New York City was supposed to explode,” he said.

“And a cheerleader was supposed to die,” Mohinder pointed out.

“A cheerleader that can’t die,” Sylar added softly but his eyes were cast downward, staring at his own water bottle that he placed on the coffee table next to Mohinder’s.

“The future is complicated,” Sylar said, going quiet. “So is the present.”

“What?” Mohinder asked.

Sylar sat for a long time, staring at Mohinder. He toed at something on the floor, stalling for time. Mohinder cleared his throat.

“What?” he asked again. Sylar stood and grabbed his water bottle again and walked behind the couch. Mohinder craned his head and watched him pace.

“I’ve intentionally hurt people… killed some. I.. It’s not—” Sylar stopped in mid-sentence and squeezed the half-empty water bottle, plastic crackling under his grip. “Sometimes it’s really easy, but I never really thought about it in the long term. About consequences. They weren’t supposed to be my problems,” he said. “I’d live and they’d die and I’d… move on, but I realized something today,” he said, looking down at Mohinder, close enough that Mohinder wondered why he smelled vaguely of burnt hair.

“I really can’t go anywhere without doing harm. Even when I don’t want to,” Sylar said. “It’s not easy to face.”

“What are you talking about? Are you really facing anything? Look at this place, it’s a damn palace and you’re a crown prince,” Mohinder said.

Sylar frowned and leaned on the couch. “Don’t give me that. You think you know me, but you really don’t. I look into a mirror sometimes, Mohinder.”

Mohinder was looking down at his hands, pushing the sleeve of his lab coat up to look at the rash on his hand. Sylar’s fingers brushed the side of his neck, wandering down his shirt, pressing lightly into his chest. Mohinder’s breath hitched and he reached for him when Sylar tried pulling away. Mohinder rolled onto his knees and pulled Sylar into a kiss. He kissed back with more than enough enthusiasm that made Mohinder crawl over the back of the couch, groping for him. He walked Sylar backwards to the bedroom, not believing or caring what Sylar saw when he looked for his reflection. He just wanted to open Sylar’s mouth again, wanting feel the soft tongue curl against his to make his stomach flutter instead of ache of anxiety. He helped him out of his shirt and undo the fly of his black jeans, leaving them discarded on the floor along with his own.

Mohinder kneeled on the bed and Sylar followed, holding back long enough to watch him shed the last articles of clothing, the green scrub and long sleeved shirt that had been smudged with charcoal from Arthur’s ominous eclipse picture. Sylar’s hands were on him before he even got the shirt over his head and Mohinder leaned into the touch, burying his face in Sylar’s neck and breathed deep as fingers massaged scales that had yet to harden below his hairline.

“I don’t know if I can even relate to people that I haven’t hurt in some way or another,” Sylar whispered into his ear. “I thought I’d known agony from my own life, but the agony of others…is nearly unbearable. I think I finally found an ability I really don’t like,” Sylar enunciated slowly so Mohinder could feel the lips form the words on his shoulder. He reached out to touch Sylar’s cock for the first time, the hardness slotting into his hand like it always belonged there.

“I used to think it was intoxicating,” he said, words mangled, coming apart the more Mohinder explored, running his hand over the patch of matted chest hair. Sylar scooped him up into his arms and pinned him on his back with an urgency that Mohinder never wanted to fight. His name was crumbled syllables, lost in Sylar’s throat. He held Sylar’s face still because it wasn’t enough, he needed more of the lips on his, on the rest of his body, making him the single most important thing in the world, like he was a power that Sylar coveted. Mohinder took Sylar’s hands and placed them on his own hips and moved willingly when Sylar helped him turn around. Mohinder braced on his forearms and knees and there was the hint of fingertips along his thighs, pushing his hips down and Mohinder leaned into the touch, hands fisting the pillow that was within reach.

Sylar molded himself to Mohinder’s back. He cringed inwardly but Sylar’s blissful sigh, the warm, comforting breath in his ear and lips brushing the side of his neck pushed the awkwardness from his thoughts. Sylar’s cock draped loosely between his legs, the shaft rubbing gently against his ass and he didn’t even care that his own cock was painfully wedged between him and the mattress.

He raised a hand to stroke Sylar’s jaw, touch the part of his lower back and thigh that he could reach. He lifted his hips and Sylar moved with him until Mohinder was on his shaky knees again

“Hard,” Mohinder whispered, barely able to say it. But Sylar heard him and placed a kiss in between his shoulder blades, lips tickling skin that was already too sensitive, brushing the top layer of scales that were becoming open sores, blistered and raw.

“Harder than you think I can handle,” Mohinder said, trying to swallow his fear.

“I don’—”

“You’ve already hurt me,” Mohinder said and let his head drop onto the bed. Sylar squeezed his elbows, hands glossing his arms and shoulders his hips and kneaded his lower back where the skin had yet to break open. Sylar thumbed several scales along his spine and he flinched but Sylar placed a chaste kiss on each of them that he pushed too hard. At his shoulders, the half-open lesions were painful under Sylar’s touch and he gritted his teeth until Sylar’s soft tongue flicked over several in turn, the warm saliva bringing a sort of itch-free relief when it dried.

Hazy with the lightheadedness of arousal, Mohinder twisted his fingers around the base his cock, barely hearing the trail end of Sylar’s words whispered into his ear. He looked up but realized the moment Sylar rose from the bed what he’d said. Mohinder leaned forward and let his face fall into the pillow, trying not to claw out of his own skin, but it was only a minute when the bed dipped again, Sylar’s hands on his calves and gliding, parting his cheeks.

He barely noticed when the hot, langorous licks was replaced by the cool dribble of lubrication sliding down the cleft of his ass. And Sylar pounded into him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel anything else but the thrusts deep inside him and the hot pants on his neck.

***

Mohinder woke on his side with a cramp in his neck, leg tangled between his knees and Sylar’s forehead pressed to his chest. Sylar’s arm was draped over his waist again and when Mohinder fidgeted, Sylar’s fingers stroked the budding row of scales on his back where they normally chafed against his pants. Sylar chuckled into his neck, full of post-coital warmth which sent a flurry of emotions through Mohinder’s body that he didn’t want to deal with any more than he wanted face his mistakes. Or maybe they were one in the same. Mohinder wasn’t entirely sure.

“I have a confession to make and I don’t expect you to believe me,” Sylar whispered.

Mohinder was stroking Sylar’s long hair back into place, fingers still ghosting over that sweet spot. Sylar broke eye contact, looked at his chin or lips and then lowered his eyes completely. Mohinder prodded him and he looked up again.

“I didn’t kill your father.”

Mohinder ran his hand down Sylar’s clammy neck and back before he pulled away.

“He was my friend. He betrayed me, but I wasn’t even in New York when he died,” he said, as if that was an explanation Mohinder was going to buy.

“You’re right, I don’t believe you,” Mohinder said.

“I know,” Sylar said and circled a sensitive patch of skin that felt more like a mosquito bite when Sylar touched.

“That doesn’t change anything,” Mohinder said.

“No,” Sylar said queitly, arms folding close in the absense of Mohinder’s warmth. “But it’s still the truth,” Sylar said.

“The truth?” Mohinder said, rolling onto his back and rubbed his neck, stomach churning, feeling the scales, remembering the reality of his situtation. He couldn’t keep the anger from inking his voice, but more to the point, he didn’t want to. Not when some post-coital admission was supposed to wipe the slate clean. “Even if you didn’t kill my father, you still took pleasure in killing Isaac Mendez. Molly’s parents,” Mohinder said. He scooted up the the bed so could sit upright against the headboard, knees bent underneath the sheets. “You _shot_ Maya because she annoyed you — and she had every reason to be irate because you _killed her brother_ ,” Mohinder said. He shouldn’t have to remind him of his sins.

“I had a front row seat on the ceiling as I watched you with Peter. What kind of truth can you say about that?”

“It was wrong. I was different,” he said, but the certainty in his voice wasn’t there which made Mohinder’s point completely, he thought.

“You know, I didn’t think it was possible for me to steep lower than you,” Mohinder said. He held his arm out in front of him and picked at one of the scales until he pulled it off like a scab and held it out to Sylar and ignored the bleeding it caused. “Look at this,” Mohinder said, sitting up and flicking the scale aside. “I did this to myself, but I experimented on _other_ people. Kidnapped them and did _things_ to them. Things you could probably imagine, but things most people can’t fathom.”

“That’s why you’re still here. Because you think you understand me or what I’ve done,” Mohinder said, throwing the sheets off and standing to find his clothes.

Mohinder was bending down for his pants when Sylar’s warm hands grabbed him by the hips and heaved him backwards, twisting until they fell on the bed. Sylar pinned him and held there. Mohinder closed his eyes and acquised to Sylar’s choreography and played dead. He’d wasn’t going to have much time to practice that much longer at the rate his progress was going on the formula. He could feel Sylar hovering above his face, but he didn’t bother to open up his eyes.

“Are you trying to ignore me?” Sylar asked, amused.

“It’s a tactic I haven’t tried yet.”

“Is it working?”

Mohinder opened his eyes and tilted his head a little, wishing it was.

“This is not you. This is not natural. This is something you can and will fix,” Sylar said.

“You’re heavy,” Mohinder said and shifted his hips.

Sylar ground back back but without the sexual intent that the action used to have.

“What about you? Playing by Petrelli rules. Not fending for yourself. Reformed. Rehabilitated. Is that you? Is killing in your nature, or can you function without it?” Mohinder said, struggling to slide himself from beneath Sylar onto the bed more. He rested on his elbows but Sylar didn’t back out of his space. If anything, he encroached upon Mohinder further, more like the predator Mohinder was used to dealing with.

“Maybe. I don’t know yet,” Sylar said.

“Until someone annoys you too much,” Mohinder said and quirked his head, thinking how closely he fit that bill himself.

“Does change even matter?” Sylar asked.

“Of course. The choices we make change us,” Mohinder said. “Some choices are regrettable. Like this,” Mohinder said, looking at Sylar’s naked body. A bullet through Noah Bennet’s eye. Maya’s terrified face.

“Is it a bigger mistake than injecting yourself?”

“If it doesn’t kill me then yes,” Mohinder said, jaw tightening in surprise at the feel of Sylar’s hand on his knee.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Sylar said, hand sliding on the inside of his thigh.

“I am,” Mohinder said. He sat up and rolled Sylar onto his back, pushing his legs apart roughly and Sylar didn’t protest in the slightest. He reached for the small bottle of lubrication was still on the nightstand and made quick work of slathering himself up and pushing in. There were no murmurs of adoration, cries of pain or pleasure; only the loud sound of Mohinder slapping into his ass and Sylar’s controlled breathing. Sylar tilted his head back, hands fumbling to hold onto Mohinder. He reached his orgasm hardly after he began, but it didn’t matter because his arms were burning, his thighs hurt and there was sweat falling down his back, mingled with what he thought was blood from the way Sylar’s hand came away slightly bloody from nails scratching to hold on.

“I’m not doing this again,” Mohinder said and collapsed beside him. Sylar kissed his chin and shoulder, pushing the wet curls from his face.

“You’re going to pretend this never happened,” Sylar said.

“And you’re going to use this to forever manipulate me. Or anyone else you hurt,” Mohinder said, pulling Sylar’s hand to his scaley neck.

“You think you have me all figured out,” Sylar said.

“Yes, I do,” Mohinder said, bursting with enough energy to raise his hand and trace Sylar’s bicep to his cheek and eyebrows.

“You love how lives are so finite and can end them with just a little bit of pressure,” Mohinder said, dragging his index finger across Sylar’s forehead. “That won’t change.”

He was surprised when Sylar’s arm errupted in goosebumps.

“Then why I haven’t killed you?” Sylar asked.

Mohinder knew that he was a rag-doll for Sylar’s pleasure, something he could beat and play into submission.

Mohinder sat up to find his clothes again, to leave for real, but he felt Sylar’s hand on his lower back. When he looked over his shoulder, Sylar pushed a pillow in Mohinder’s direction and Mohinder eventually laid down, away from him but Sylar pulled the sheets back up and fitted himself to Mohinder’s backside.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t pretend with me. About anything,” Sylar said.

“I wish I could say the same,” Mohinder said.

“I wish I could too,” Sylar whispered into his hair.

“I’m tired of the merry-go-round of lies. Go to sleep,” Mohinder said, torn with wanting to catch a nap and showering before returning to the lab for more work.

“Do you think Claire’s blood would help?” Sylar asked, fingers kneading his shoulder in a way that made him flush with unnecessary warmth.

“What?” he asked and turned over.

“For the formula, for whatever you need to make it work,” Sylar asked, hand coming up to thumb his chin. Mohinder swallowed. The thought had occurred to him, but the probability of locating her were… well, he didn’t even know.

“It’s… possible,” Mohinder said, though he tried to suppress the hopeful tone.

“Arthur knows where she is,” he said. “We’re—Elle and I—going after her,” he said. “Bring her in.”

Mohinder began to sit up. “When?”

Sylar cupped his neck and reached for his hand, clenching it firmly and Mohinder was taken aback by the firm tenderness. Sylar looked him in the eye with none of the dominance or manipulation. Mohinder wanted to lean forward and kiss him but he was still so stunned by the new information that he reclined back into the pillow.

“In the morning,” he said after what seemed like a far longer pause than necessary. Sylar released his hand and ran his hand up his arm and squeezed his shoulder, far too reassuring for Mohinder’s taste. Even with the truth or lie about his father, even with the recognition of the burden their shoulders, none of this was all right. Mohinder didn’t like the world that he lived in where he became excited at the prospect that kidnapping a young girl would help solve all his problems.

“It would be self-serving of me to wish you good luck,” Mohinder said and tried to bury the ambiguity by rolling over and fluffing his pillow. Sylar rolled with him and hummed into the back of his neck before making himself comfortable along Mohinder’s scaly back.

“It’s okay,” Sylar murmured, his arm snaking over his waist and threaded his fingers with his.

“Don’t hurt her,” Mohinder said and turned to look at his silhouetted face.

“She can’t die,” Sylar said.

“She’s been through enough,” he said and Sylar bowed his head and kissed his chin.

“I can’t make any guarantees,” he said.

“You can, but you won’t,” Mohinder pointed out and pushed the covers away. He got up and started putting his clothes back on. “I need to get back to the lab,” Mohinder said, more to himself as slid into his pants.

“Good night, Mohinder,” Sylar said and Mohinder pretended not to hear the sullen air about his name.

Mohinder pulled the scrub top over his shirt and looked back at Sylar who was still sprawled in the sheets, watching him fumble for his socks and shoes in the darkness again. Claire couldn’t die. Her blood helped with a cure before, there’s no reason that it wouldn’t a second time. Save his life. Even at the prospect of having his life back, alive and whole, Mohinder would be indebted to Sylar and by extension, Arthur. The thought gnawed at him in a way that irritated him more than the itchiness of the growing scales. He couldn’t afford to think about that or the way Sylar smoothed out the side of the bed where he’d been tangled in the sheets moments before. Couldn’t afford to look back at him through the veil of darkness and acknowledge the touch, the heat and pressure of Sylar’s body pressed against him, real and unforgiving at the same time. Mohinder cleared his throat and stood in the doorway, unable to see Sylar’s face from the distance.

“Good luck,” he said and promptly turned on his heel and left the night and the previous night behind as he returned to his lab.


End file.
